


The Last Men Standing

by isamariposa



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gender Roles, Hand Jobs, Happy, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, happy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-28 09:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21134768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: Jopson survives. Crozier and the Netsilik nurse him back to health. Isolated, hundreds of miles from the nearest outpost, they fall into old habits - and develop new ones together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> /crashes late into the fandom with Starbucks
> 
> God, I love these two together. The porn is in the last two chapters. The fic is finished - will update once I finish editing the other chapters.
> 
> I’ve made a respectful effort of reading some Netsilik (academic) material, but I’m sure I must have messed up the culture in some aspects. These are due to my own ignorance and not out of maliciousness. No disrespect intended.

* * *

He looks for Jopson first, but the sickbed is empty when they arrive to the last camp he remembers. In the other tents, the men are dead. Left behind. Francis clenches his jaw and turns his back on this screaming reminder of his failure. Later, he and Lady Silence find the others: another camp turned to graveyard, the men's eyes wide with terror even in their deaths. Francis knew all of them: their names, where they came from, how to best speak to them. Once upon a time, he'd have said a silent eulogy for them, at least in his head, but his own unworthiness has dried his eloquence - perhaps forever. 

No sign of Jopson in the second camp either. They must have eaten him after he passed. 

The once proud subjects of the greatest empire on this Earth, sinking down to a savagery far more brutal than any aboriginals they might have once looked down upon. Francis very well knew that cold and isolation drove men to madness. But the muted horror in Lady Silence's eyes when she saw what remained of Goodsir... It shames him, and not least because they were his men - his to command, his to rein in, his to guide. Jopson's disappearance is one last grievance on the enormous bag of grievances he carries upon his shoulders. If he were alone, Francis might sit down and wait for his own death. The fresh stump in his left arm aches abominably. But Lady Silence presses on in their long trek south, in a hurry to rejoin her tribe before winter closes upon them, so he resigns himself to this. It will be more than fitting to face his final judgement at the hands of the people they've so wronged in the past weeks.

If the roles were reversed, he'd have ordered himself shackled. But the Netsilik look at him with curiosity, not hatred, as he is brought to the chieftain's tent. Francis finds it difficult to place an age on him. He looks no older than thirty, but his eyes are those of an elderly man who's seen generations of suffering.

"Silna tells me you are alone?" the chief asks. 

So _ that _ was her name. Francis looks at her in wonder. The Netsilik do not share their names so easily, he's learned, unlike them who offer it freely upon a meeting. The chieftain's name remains unknown to him.

"My men," Francis manages to say. "They died."

"All?" the chief insists. Francis nods, a knot in his throat, and the chief and Silna exchange a glance. "What do you want to do?"

He doesn't understand. Why is it his choice to make? His fate is theirs to decide. He doesn't know how to voice that, in the Netsilik tongue or in English.

"In spring you can decide," the chief says, warmly. "In winter you stay with us."

Francis understands even less. "After what I've done?" he croaks. "To Tuunbaq?"

The chief nods with a fatalistic gesture. 

Francis read of the Greek Heroes at some point during his schooling. The fate of those who killed the gods, or attempted to, was never kind. Was Tuunbaq a god? Or a creature? He's reminded, absurdly, of the Minotaur, or of Medusa - names that do not have any meaning in this barren land. But Francis is no Hercules, or Perseus. He's just a man, crippled and defeated. Lost in a land that isn't his.

"Not all your men died," the chief says, and smiles at him for the first time. "We found one. Your wife."

Francis stares at him, thinking something must be lost in translation. Silna too smiles at him, a bare twitching of her lips. 

"My wife?" he repeats. 

Perhaps it's also a word for companion, for mate. In this language, much of the meaning depends on context. But someone lived! One of his men? Someone survived? The chief calls for a boy to take him to 'the other white man's tent'. Francis follows him, a little dizzy, wondering which of the words he misunderstood, trying to keep his bearings until the boy points the tent to him.

Jopson.

Jopson, wrapped in furs, pale and ill like when he left him, but _ alive_. Francis cries out. He runs in the tent and pulls him into his arms. Jopson's eyes open slowly, as if his eyelids weighed a ton.

"Captain," he slurs, his gaze unfocused by the fever. "You came back f-for me."

"Of course I did," Francis answers, his voice wavering because of the sob caught in his throat. When he feels Thomas's soft hair against his cheek, he can't hold his tears a moment longer. They're tears of joy, he tells himself, but they rather taste of relief.

* * *

Francis goes find the shaman of the tribe as soon as Jopson returns to his uneasy slumber. Not Silna: this one deals with more earthly concerns, though Francis is aware now more than ever that for them, the spiritual and physical world overlap in ways he'd have once attributed to ignorance or delusion. It's difficult to continue thinking this way when he himself slew a creature that should not have existed. This shaman is an older woman, who stares at him with far more patience than Francis's pressing questions deserve.

"Will he live?" he asks, his voice strangled.

"He is very ill," the shaman answers. "But if he survives until Spring, he will live."

"What must I do?"

"Feed him. Give him water every hour. Milk would help. I will find some for you."

"Only that? And he will live?"

"His illness not from here," the woman says. "Difficult to heal. Difficult to say." She rummages inside a pelted bag and hands him a little idol. "Place this around his neck. For protection." 

Francis takes the seal-shaped figurine with shaking hands. Brave Goodsir, who died an ignoble death, would bring him far more comfort at this hour than these remedies he doesn't understand. But he will not argue. He hasn't the right to.

"When snow comes, melt it for him. You know how?" the woman asks.

He's tempted to snap at her he's been in the Arctic in numerous expeditions and isn't as useless as she imagines him to be, but he stays silent, and watches her as she gestures how to melt snow in a basin, and then to warm the cup with his own body heat before giving it to the patient. 

"Give him every hour. Make sure he pisses all the sickness out."

That's sound advice, Francis decides, and makes his way back to the tent with some fresh water in a leather flask. The young boy is waiting outside and hands him a couple of pelts. He doesn't say anything to him before he runs off. These are for making a bed, he guesses. There isn't much room to spare in Jopson's tent. Once inside, Francis hesitates and ends up making his own bed as close to his as he can manage. The grease-filled pot is lit up, giving the inside of the tent an orange glow. On the floor, a plate of dried seal, untouched, and a cup for water. There's also some sort of chamber pot by the flap of the tent. Francis sighs.

"Sir?" Jopson mumbles, squinting at him in confusion as if seeing him for the first time. 

"Hullo there," Francis says, patiently. "Won't you eat a little bit?"

"Th-thirsty."

"There's water, too."

He sits next to him on the bed, on top of his own furs, and brushes some damp hair out of his forehead. The fever, while still burning, doesn't feel as high as it was in their wretched camp. Francis presses a cup of water to Jopson's cracked lips.

"You have to get better, Thomas," he whispers, holding his head as he helps him drink. It's difficult to hold him with his stump, but Francis forces himself not to mind that. "You have to."

"Yessir," he mumbles, and when he lets go of his head he falls back asleep at once.

With utmost care not to wake him, Francis ties the little idol around Jopson's neck. 

Just in case.

* * *

When the snow comes, the chieftain calls Francis outside. He hands him a spear and gestures for him to follow. Shocked at first that they trust him with a weapon, Francis soon finds that the chieftain's brother, an unsmiling man also armed with a spear, and his nephew, a boy of twelve, will also join them. The chieftain demonstrates how to use a spear using a soft pillow as the target, very patiently, as if he were teaching a child. Francis feels his cheeks burning with humiliation, but takes the lesson the best he can. The spear is meant to be held with both hands for more force, but since his left one is missing, he'll have to hit twice as hard. Francis strikes the target pillow rather miserably. 

"Try again," the chieftain says, with just as much patience.

The boy and the other man only watch them in silence. The child carries a small spear too - he is likely skilled at this already, unlike Francis. He is let go some hours later, mortified and exhausted, his right arm afire with pain from his wrist up to his shoulder.

"Good," the chieftain tells him, and pats him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, again."

He takes the spear from him and Francis returns to the tent. He notices a new leather flask left just outside. When he uncorks it, he finds that it smells vaguely of milk. Where did it come from? They've not sighted a creature that would produce it in miles. One of the women of the tribe has a young baby, but Francis refuses to consider that possibility. He brings it inside anyway. Jopson is asleep, but he's made water. Francis empties the chamberpot outside with his jaw clenched and covers the waste with snow. Once he returns, he throws himself on their bed, the frustration still dizzying. He's never liked not knowing how to do something. 

"Are you really here, sir?" Jopson asks, sleepily.

"Yes, Thomas. Eat some meat." 

"I dreamt of you," he says, fingering the idol around his neck. "You were at a banquet, but you wouldn't look at me."

Francis reaches for one of the chunks of dried seal, ignoring the pain in his arm, and brings it to Jopson's lips.

"I'm afraid this isn't much of a banquet, but it's all there is."

Jopson chews, still in a haze, staring at him as they both lie together on the furs. Francis offers him the mysterious milk flask and watches him drink it. 

"Your hand, sir. How did you lose it?"

"I lost it when I fought the beast."

Jopson takes in the news with no particular reaction, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You need a shave, Captain," he says, as he closes his eyes again.

"I know. Get well soon, so that you may do it yourself."

The next day, Francis is made to practice with the spear again, and the day after that, and for many days after until the lessons stop abruptly as men and women make preparations for the true winter. They never tell him whether he's graduated or not. They don't let him keep the spear, either.

* * *

When the snow hardens enough, the men start building their snow-houses. It's a job that requires two hands. Francis sits outside, ashamed, watching them and wondering if he'll have to resort to ask for help from one of the other men. But he doesn't need to: the chieftain comes see him at midday with a snow-knife in his hand. His name is Samik, Francis learned, but he refuses to address him as anything other than "chief", even in his head: to remind himself he is here only because of these people's mercy. 

"We build your house for you and your wife today," the chieftain says.

"Why do you call him my wife?" Francis asks, his voice coming out a little raspy. He's come to understand that this is deliberate, not a faulty translation.

The chieftain stares at him, a little puzzled. "Silna told us. She saw you. On your boat and on your way here."

Francis draws a blank at what she could have seen between them to arrive at that conclusion. Jopson was there with him at all times, aye, waiting on him, dressing him. Nothing was ever improper between them.

"He took care of you," the chieftain adds. "Is that not a wife to your people?"

Francis glances down at the snow. How to explain that what he is suggesting would be a grave insult in Britain? That he himself would have had to hang men if they were ever found in such activities? He never had to deal with it himself, but Parry ordered it in one of his expeditions - a sorry affair, though he only had the sailors flogged and written up for 'uncleanliness' rather than buggery. The two men were never the same afterwards. But in all fairness, the chieftain hasn't spoken of buggery. He's only assumed this because Jopson waited on him, yes, as devotedly as any wife would. Perhaps more so than any wife would ever do.

"Not always," Francis answers, at last. "But sometimes, yes."

It's cold out, and making the snow blocks takes a very long time. The others come help, men, women, and even children. Francis wonders, should he have helped them as well, instead of watching them as he wallowed in self-pity? Carving and lifting the blocks is a two-hand affair, aye, but once stacked together he finds that he can polish the blocks with just one hand - his stump no less helpful than a hand in a mitten, rigid with cold. The men add a piece of ice in the manner of a window, enough to let in what little winter light remains. It's cozy inside. Francis doesn't deserve their kindness. He sits next to the chieftain, hoping his voice conveys how grateful he is to them - 'thank you' doesn't seem quite enough.

"Your people are too kind to me," he says. 

"You stay with us in winter," the chief says, very simply. "So we build you a house. Be happy, not ashamed."

Ah, but this melancholy is an old friend of his, this need to make himself miserable instead of counting his blessings. Francis sighs and drinks from the flask of water the chieftain hands him.

"I have to ask you," he says, after he's finished drinking. "Tuunbaq. When I killed him, did I do your people harm?"

"You only killed his body. His spirit cannot be killed."

This doesn't make Francis feel any better about what he's done. "If he's a spirit, can he come back?"

"He must," the chief says. "When the time is right."

"And when that happens, will he... look for the one who slew him, if he happens to still be here?"

The chieftain presses a hand to Francis's chest, where the scars still sting. "You bear his mark, and yet you live. It was the will of the gods that you'd kill him and be spared."

"But did I do your people harm in killing him?"

"When you killed him? No. When you came here, yes." Francis averts his gaze and swallows. He agrees with that. He suspected as much. "Do not trouble yourself with Tuunbaq. He is Silna's to worry. Our gods will not abandon their children."

He rises to mark the conversation over. Francis stays seated in the snow for a while, contemplating what's to become of him (of them) if the gods of these people do happen to abandon them in a not so distant future.

Jopson is wide awake when he goes fetch him from their tent. He's been regaining some colour, little by little, and his eyes are no longer bloodshot. Francis watches over him like a hawk each day, searching for signs of amelioration in every inch of his poor body and wanting to believe he'll live. He can stand now - enough to walk over to their snowhouse, even if Francis has to do most of the effort as they make their short way there, trying not to sink in the snow. 

"It's warmer in here than I thought it would be," Jopson remarks, marveling inside the igloo as Francis wraps him in furs.

"These people have skills that make me feel like a clumsy child toddling in their wake," Francis mutters, and Jopson flashes him a small smile.

He straightens. He must retrieve the rest of their scarce belongings, but he doesn't quite make it to the door of the snowhouse.

"Don't leave me," Jopson says, with evident anguish in his voice.

"I shan't be long," Francis replies, a little rattled. He thought they were past the fever and its associated delirium.

"You left me," Jopson repeats, perfectly coherent. When Francis bends down to be at eye level, his gaze isn't glassy with illness, but clear and unclouded for the first time since he found him. "You did, sir. Pardon me for asking, I know it's not my place to question your doings. But you did leave me, sir. I saw the group marching away. Leaving me behind, as you swore you never would. Why?"

"I did not leave you, do you hear me?" Francis says, perhaps too sharply. "I was taken against my will, to Hickey's camp. I'd have never left you otherwise!"

Jopson stares at him. Francis wraps him tighter in the furs, and when there's nothing left to adjust, he gives in and pulls him in his arms.

"I'd have never left you," he repeats into his ear. "I never will."

"Thank you, sir," Jopson mumbles, against his chest. Against the scars. "And the others? What happened to them?"

Francis sighs. He doesn't want to speak of it. And yet once he begins, his tongue loosens, unstoppable, like an abscess breaking and leaking all of its pus. He tells him everything: the madness, the horror, the hopelessness, the fear, and how it all ended. When he finishes his tale, he lets out another sigh, more shaky than the first. He pries Jopson away from him, gently, thinking him asleep again. But he's still awake, and his gaze meets Francis's with an admiration so evident it's painful to see. He places his palm against his chest, over the scars, though the furs don't let him reach any skin.

"It had to be you, Captain. It had to be," he says.

"Shush now. Go back to sleep, and let me fetch the rest of our belongings."

He straightens, but Jopson holds him by the hand to stop him. 

"Sir?" he asks. "What happens now? To us."

"Now we weather the winter with the Netsilik. Together. You and I."

Jopson squeezes his hand. Francis thinks there could be worse fates than this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for references to past prostitution. I hope it isn't too controversial. Mind the explicit rating etc
> 
> Knucklebones = Jacks without the ball
> 
> I must thank kriegskrieg who patiently endured my babbling about this fic day in day out. And also pottedmusic for discussing about it a little bit. Everyone else, thank you so much for reading!

* * *

Soon after midwinter passes and the deep indigo twilight returns, the men of the tribe all leave to hunt seals that have been sighted east of the camp. They don't take Francis along, but they do take the twelve year old boy. It's not a personal slight against him, he knows (in their place, he would also not take a newcomer who can barely hold a weapon to a long hunting expedition), but it still stings. Only the women and children are left - the women, and he and Jopson. If he were alone, if he were permitted to, he'd smash something to pieces. The ghost of aching for a drink haunts him for the first time in months, but it's easy to ignore given there's not a drop of alcohol in sight for hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles. Jopson lies next to him while he stews over all of this silently, and Francis realizes he's now well on the mend when he awakens one morning to find him stroking his beard into order.

"Didn't mean to wake you, sir," Jopson says, apologetically, and pulls his hand back. He's also holding a comb. Francis wasn't even aware they had one - a small ivory comb that looks Netsilik-made.

"I'm afraid it's too cold to shave," he says, still a little groggy. "Might wait for spring."

"Yes, that's why I wanted to groom it. It suits you, if I may say."

Francis lets out a short laugh. "Am I your sweetheart, that I deserve such flattery from you this early in the morning?"

"Not quite, Captain," Jopson says with a small smile. "But I thought it might please you to know."

Not quite indeed. Francis meant it as a sleepy, twisted joke to himself, but he's well aware he isn't Jopson's sweetheart - he's his husband, apparently. And it does vaguely please him to know the beard suits him, in the frustrating kind of way that makes him want to shout into his left hand, if he still had one.

"You shouldn't call me Captain anymore," he says, his tone dry.

Jopson frowns. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Where is my ship? Where are my men?" Francis asks with a snarl that he regrets at once, but Jopson is used to his outbursts and doesn't even flinch.

"Well. I'm still here, sir," he says. "You'll always be the Captain for me."

"Even so. Don't call me that anymore."

"But what shall I call you then? Crozier? _ Francis _?"

Francis grimaces a little. "You could."

"I'd never."

The way Jopson laughs so close to his chest, heartily and so unlike that of a man who's been lingering on death's doorstep for months, is what makes Francis get out of bed. He must get the shaman at once. But he finds that Jopson rises too, a little unsteady on his feet on the warm furs that make the flooring of their snowhouse. He helps _ him _ dress, just like old times. Francis can't help a sigh of relief: the stump gave him much grief when he had to do this alone. 

"Thank you, Thomas," he says, and for some reason he can't quite meet his gaze as he exits the tent.

When called, the shaman examines him in silence, and then declares Jopson will likely make a full recovery. 

"Now he must walk," she says, "around your igloo. Many times a day, to get blood flowing. Then he regains strength." She reaches for the little idol still hung around Jopson's neck. Francis remembers it being off-white, but it's turned black now, as if covered in soot. Strange. The shaman wipes it with the sleeve of her fur coat, but it remains dark. "The gods listened. Keep wearing this," she says. "In case the illness returns."

"You heard the doctor," Francis tells him when she leaves, but Jopson only looks at him blankly. Of course: he didn't understand a word. "Remind me to start teaching you their tongue. Up you go, then. You're to walk around the snowhouse 'til you regain your strength."

The first day, Jopson can barely finish one circle around the snowhouse. His long illness has left him a little lame, and he hobbles along pitifully. When it's done, he collapses on the bed, heaving and shivering, but his cheeks are flushed - a healthy flush, not a feverish one. The next day, he tries one more lap, and one more the day after, with a stoic determination that fills Francis with relief. He'll recover.

Other than that, the winter days are long and empty. There isn't much to do in the igloo in the manner of entertainment they are used to. No books to read, no cards to play, no charts to study, nothing to plan for other than lessons in the Netsilik tongue. Francis makes a poor teacher, too brusque, too impatient, but Jopson learns somewhat. The fickle aurora makes it impossible to stargaze, often for several days, but when the stars are visible Francis drags the furs out to wrap themselves in as they look up to the skies, the Ursa Major and Minor high above them. They have to lie very close together, to share what little heat they have to spare underneath the thick furs. After some tugging and pulling, Francis somehow ends up in Jopson's arms, when that was not his design. It takes him a good minute or two to feel comfortable in this position, enough to relax against him. 

"I once spent thirty-five days straight studying the stars," he tells him. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"I think you did, but tell me again?"

"It was on Parry's expedition. There's a set of stars," he tries to gesture, forgetting his hand is trapped under the blankets, and that's enough to draw a short laugh out of him. "There's a set of stars that are ever visible in the high latitudes we're in. You can find the Northern star, of course?"

"Aye, sir. There she is, right above us. Wouldn't be much of a sailor if I couldn't find her."

"These stars I'm telling you about, they never leave her this far North. They stay around her, all year long, their positions only rotating with the seasons but never disappearing."

"How very steadfast of them."

Well, that's one interpretation. A little too fanciful for Francis, but it doesn't surprise him that this is what Jopson focuses on, with his good heart.

"Hm," he agrees.

"You'll have to teach me their names when it's less cold out."

"I will. I promise." 

Jopson nods against his head. His hair feels so soft against Francis's cheek. His eyes flutter closed, for a brief moment, absurdly comforted by his company. If he were a poet, if he had the temperament for such nonsense, he might compare Jopson to those unwavering stars. He clears his throat. He's growing silly.

"They made me a fellow at the Royal Astronomical Society for that," he adds, more bitterly. "They'll soon find that my seat is to remain vacant for all the years to come."

"Why say that? We can still return to England one day, God willing."

"God willing." Francis huffs. "The day before he died, Goodsir asked me if I thought God was here."

"What did you answer?"

"I didn't answer. I've never been overly pious, Jopson. I only ever said or did what needed to be done, what civility dictated. If God is here, I think He's rather unconcerned about our fate. This is a lonely land. We must draw our strength from within ourselves, not expect some divine comfort."

He'd have never said this to his men while they looked to him for guidance. There's some relief in saying it out loud at last.

"That strength from within also comes from God," Jopson argues. "And failing that, we've the gods of these lands, however unkind to strangers they may be."

"We are strangers no longer. At least, I am not." He reaches between them to finger the black idol necklace around Jopson's neck. "And I daresay neither are you. But I cannot return to England. You may, perhaps, but not I. This kind of failure would ruin my career, my reputation. Maybe even my life."

"You've not failed, sir. You're alive. We're alive, you and I."

"I wish that were enough."

"It is for me," Jopson says, a little dryly.

Francis turns his head up, the tone hinting he might have offended him. When he does so, he realizes how close together they are lying on the snow, nearly nose to nose. It's hauntingly dark out here, but he can distinguish Jopson's gaze searching for his. His breath is warm against his face.

"Thomas," Francis whispers. He feels lightheaded, as if he'd had too much to drink. It's not drunkness, he realizes. It's a breadcrumb of happiness, and he devours it like a man starved.

Thomas smiles at him and presses a light kiss to his forehead. The gesture stuns Francis a little. He cannot remember the last time he was kissed so earnestly. Perhaps as a child, far too long ago. It's not unpleasant. He shifts back into their previous position, staring up at the stars. 

Maybe Thomas is right. Maybe being alive is enough.

* * *

  


The men return a fortnight later, bringing not just seals with them, but the large carcass of what appears to be a sea lion. The whole camp is overjoyed with the news. A great feast is prepared promptly, the animals skinned for their furs, and the food shared between the families to first be eaten and then dried for storage. Out of the two of them, Thomas is the one who is handed a large bowl with their share, which reminds Francis once more that they consider him his wife. He's begun teaching him their language, but hasn't dared to tell him what it is they call him. They eat the raw meat in silence, not joining the revelry but also not quite removed from it. 

"Pity it's not cooked. I could make a good broth with this meat," Thomas says, examining what seems to be the ribs of a seal. "If only I had vegetables of some sort."

"I didn't know you could cook."

"One of my many talents. My little brother used to say I made a mean broth."

Francis isn't overly keen to eat this meat full of fresh blood, nutritious as it may be. It reminds him of those ghastly days that are seared in his mind despite how hard he tries to forget. But he eats in silence, trying not to mind the blood on his hands, and refusing to glance in his companion's direction while the corner of his mouth is still bloodied. But he needn't have worried. Thomas scoops a bit of snow and fashions some sort of napkin from one of his smaller furs.

"Thank you," Francis mumbles, still not meeting his gaze even as Thomas cleans his beard.

"Aglooka!" the chief says, joining them by the fire - evidently in high spirits. "Next winter, if you are still with us, you come also."

Francis feels his cheeks flushing with unexpected gratitude. "Thank you," he says, again. "I hope to earn that honor by then."

"You will, you will. After Tuunbaq, hunting seal will be easier to master."

He's grinning at him, but Francis barely manages a smile. It's still baffling to him how lightly they speak of his deed, with little reverence and no resentment. Tuunbaq's demise is just something that happened. To Francis, it's an insurmountable line that marks a before and an after in his life, no less because of the loss of his men and of his hand. Across the fire, Silna meets his glance, as if sensing his thoughts.

"Make merry tonight!" the chief tells them as he rises to leave them. "Food is plentiful, and the gods smile on us."

Francis grunts in acknowledgement. 

"Maybe I should call you Aglooka myself, sir," Thomas says, with a hint of mirth in his tone, and Francis chuckles with him.

"Do as you like. I don't mind."

"Do you reckon they'll give me a name as well?"

"I'm sure they will. Come spring, most likely." 

Francis looks around. Rather than 'making merry' in the sense he'd imagine, the communal party seems to be dwindling down. Most married couples are making their way back to their igloos. Of course. The men have been absent too long. 

"Let's go back to the snow-house," he says.

Thomas follows him diligently, bringing their bowl of meat with him. He's holding something in his left hand, but Francis doesn't notice what it is until they slip inside the igloo and seal the door shut. Thomas sits on the floor, on the furs, and shows him some small pieces of bone that he's collected, about ten of them, all equal in size.

"We can play knucklebones," he says, with a rather endearing grin.

"Knucklebones?" Francis repeats with a chuckle. "Do you take me for a ship's boy?"

He doesn't think he even remembers how to play. Thomas looks miffed.

"Oh, suit yourself, sir. I'll play by myself, once the bones dry, and you can stew in boredom as you watch me."

Francis laughs out loud now, and starts undressing for bed. Thomas is at his side at once to help him. It's freezing underneath the furs when they slide into bed, both as scantily dressed as decency allows to conserve the most heat between them. The camp, usually quiet once everyone retires to their houses, is unusually abuzz with a strange energy tonight. The snow-houses are well insulated, and hearing one's neighbours is a rare occurrence, but he and Thomas are lying in such silence that he can make out some soft moans carried by the wind. Someone is fornicating nearby. Is it fornication if it's between husband and wife? Francis bites back a chuckle. Thomas is lying on his back, his breath a little hitched. He's heard too, undoubtedly.

"Did you have a girl waiting for you back in England?" Francis asks, to fill the silence.

Thomas turns his head towards him. "No, sir."

"Why not?"

He takes a long time to answer. When he does, he says, "There was never time, not with my mum and my brother. And even so, girls never seemed to sit well with me. It felt hardly worth the effort to chase after them."

Francis frowns, a little alarmed at the thought that Thomas might have saved himself for marriage, willingly or not. He assumed that all his men, save perhaps the boys, were acquainted with the ways of the world. He props himself on his side, mystified that they've not once talked about this in all their years together.

"But there was at least one, I hope?" he asks.

Thomas laughs. "Oh, yes. One. Don't see know I could have avoided that, dissolute as I was before I joined the Navy. But I wasn't overly fond of brothels, I must say. It always felt rather uninspired."

"Hm," Francis agrees. "I never liked them myself either."

He wonders what Thomas considers 'dissolute': he was just short of twenty-two when he first became his steward - a little young, surely, to have the vast experience he implies to have. But just one? Something does not add up, but Thomas speaks before he can press on.

"What about you, sir? Someone waiting for you this time?"

"Didn't you hear?"

"I heard things, but I'd rather hear them from you, if I may."

Francis sighs. The groans carried by the wind are growing more enthusiastic. He tries not to mind that, but his ear seems to have a devilish will of its own, detecting nuances unheard before. He's growing uncomfortable by the minute. 

"There was someone," Francis says at last, the mere memory of it still a blistering slap. "But she would not have me. Surely you heard. I thought... I thought I loved her. I don't know that I did. I've not spared a thought for her in a long time."

She had some regard for him, but not enough to marry him. _ He _ was not enough. She might deny him even more now: older, crippled, and disgraced. Or worse, she might take him out of pity.

"So what do you think of now, sir?"

"Of nothing. Of the men I lost. Of surviving, day after day."

Their noisy neighbours finally quiet down, after a satisfied grunt from the man. The fact that this had an effect on him at all surprises Francis: he cannot recall the last time he felt his cock stirring with interest. It's been months, perhaps nearly a year. When he quit the drink, he was far too miserable to acknowledge it properly, but unwanted erections came and went after being absent for months, and Jopson was polite enough to ignore them back then. It might be a bit harder to ignore now, when they're lying so close together. He tries to adjust himself, but he's lying on his good arm and his stump is of little help. Francis rolls onto his back, breathing as normally as he can. He should get some sleep. He's only half-hard, it won't be that much of an ordeal. He adjusts himself over his drawers, discreetly he assumed, but before he moves his hand back fully, he feels Thomas turning towards him, and then his hand, warm and steady, cups him with suffocating naturality. 

"What are you doing?" he manages to say. He had meant to sound harsh, perhaps forbidding, but his voice comes out in a waver, breathless, and frankly quite shocked.

"Come now, sir. I've changed your linens for nearly a decade, this is hardly a leap. I know you'll sleep better after it."

_ Hardly a leap _? Francis would laugh incredulously, but he is disarmed before he can manage that: Thomas's free hand pulls him against him as if to silence him further, against his chest. It reminds him of his gentle sternness when he was ill and miserable. He knows him well, too well. 

"Just let go, sir," he whispers against his ear as he gives him two firm jerks. "It'll be over faster than you think."

Francis lets out a shaky breath. His cock fills into the hand stroking him, rather helplessly. It would be easier, perhaps, if he just thought of nothing, if he let him do it in the absent-minded way he used to handle himself whenever he found himself at the end of his rope. But everything about this moment is maddeningly about Thomas: the hairs on his chest against Francis's nose, and his scent, still clean from his wash earlier that day but imbued with the sweat of wearing furs all day, and his hand curled over the nape of his neck, fingers barely brushing under the line of his hair, and the sound of his breathing, hitched and ragged as he jerks him with increasing firmness and astonishing skill. Francis spends himself with a muffled moan, more bewildered at the intensity of this simple pleasure than in fact relieved. The discharge is copious: Thomas pumps him dry until it's almost unbearable, and then he produces a soft cloth out of heavens knows where to clean him.

The grease-lamp in the snow tent has a very subdued glow at this time of the year, and Francis can hardly make out what is happening when Thomas sits on the edge of their makeshift bed, feet down on the furs of the floor and facing away from him. But he can hear him, he can hear how he handles himself in near complete silence. It strikes him as rather unfair that he isn't allowed to be part of this. Francis extends his good hand and presses it flat to the small of Thomas's back, over the skin barely exposed there. A strangled gasp, two more jerks, and Thomas sighs with relief. He cleans himself promptly and slips back under the covers, the warmest cocoon just for the two of them.

"Sleep well, sir," Thomas whispers.

Francis is still dazed enough that he slides closer to him. For warmth, he tells himself. But if it were about warmth, there would be no need to rest his head on Thomas's shoulder as he does. He's too tired, too loose, too slack to argue with himself. Maybe in the morning. 

* * *

  


When Francis awakens, he finds that Thomas is already out of bed. He's sitting on the furs on the ground playing knucklebones: he makes the little bones jump up and catches them with the back of his hand, then picks up the ones he failed to catch methodically. The faint, bluish polar twilight that barely slides through their ice-window gives him an eerie, almost sickly look to his otherwise calm demeanour as he plays. The beard he's had to grow has done little to harden his features: his gaze is still as gentle as before, even as he frowns deep in concentration. It strikes Francis that he would have liked to see what he looked like when he touched him, but he's quick to bury those dangerous thoughts deep in his mind.

"Jopson," he calls, and sits up on the bed.

"Good morning, sir. Still unwilling to join me at knucklebones?" he asks, teasingly.

"More unwilling than ever, after watching you play on your own: I'd lose far too miserably for my pride to endure."

Thomas flashes him a grin and stands up to bring him a cup of fresh water to rinse his mouth. He also hands him the chamberpot a moment later. Francis hesitates before taking his dick out to piss. He's being absurd: he's done this in front of him over a thousand times, but after what they've done he finds it oddly appalling to just whip it out. But Thomas bends back down, collecting the bones he was playing with, and not paying him any mind. Francis pulls down his drawers and aims at the pot. He's got better at this: the first days after he awoke to a stump in his left arm, he struggled to do even this simple task one-handed.

"Will you be going out this morning? Shall I help you dress?" Thomas asks, turning towards him when he's done.

"No, Thomas."

"No? Well, I was going to see if I can make myself useful somehow - I've done my fair bit of meat drying in the past. But I can wait until you're ready to be dressed, sir. There's still some bits of fresh meat left in our bowl, would you like some?"

"No, no." Still sitting on their bed, Francis makes an impatient gesture to stop the solicitous babbling. "Sit back down."

He does as he's told and sits cross-legged on the floor, though with a bit of a frown as he looks up at him.

"What happened last night," Francis goes on, slowly and laboriously, "was... regrettable and should not become a habit."

"Regrettable?" Thomas repeats, and his frown deepens. "Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you didn't sound like you regretted it much."

"This conversation will go far more smoothly if you cease calling me sir, like I've requested you to do!" Francis snaps.

Thomas stares at him, and a flash of genuine annoyance twists his otherwise gentle features into a scowl.

"Fine. It didn't sound like you regretted it much, _ Crozier_."

He grimaces at the foreign name on his tongue, and Francis has to admit he too winces at the sound of it, especially when said with such contempt.

"How I sounded is irrelevant," he argues. "If we are to remain sane, we should strive to maintain a modicum of civility, no matter our circumstances."

"Civility?" Thomas smiles, though it doesn't go with his tone. "You told me not long ago that you weren't overly pious. You're forbidding me to call you captain, so you've broken with that life as well. What is it, then, that made my... ministrations so uncivil to you?"

Francis has no true answer for that. He did not expect him to push back. But that is what he's essentially allowing him to do, isn't it, if he insists on a more equal form of address between the two. For now, he only glares at him, letting his irrational frustration loose.

"Am I wrong in assuming this was not the first time you've engaged in such activities?" he asks, dryly, ignoring the question he was asked.

"Is that what offends you? You weren't the first, no. I told you I led a dissolute life before the Navy. What did you think that meant?"

"I don't know what that means!"

"It means that by the dockyards of the East End, many a gentleman would pay a lad a good shilling if he was quick enough about it. Sometimes even a crown. We were dirt poor at home. I did what had to be done."

Francis closes his eyes, because Thomas will not avert his gaze, defiant yet earnest, and still inexplicably devoted to him somehow. Understanding dawns upon him, sickens him. He wishes he could have shielded Thomas from that, from the unfairness of it - even if they didn't yet know each other when it happened.

"Those were not gentlemen," he manages after a pause, opening his eyes again.

"I care not what they were."

"You do realize, if I had ever caught you at it aboard, I'd have had to punish you most exemplarily? As my steward..."

"You never would have," Thomas says, cutting him off. His smile has returned, with a nervous edge. "I never did it at sea. I knew what the rules were for my job. And I was never inclined to seek such company aboard."

"No?"

"No. How could I, when all my thoughts were for you? It was my duty to look after you, to make sure you were well and comfortable. There was never room for anyone else in my head. The others hardly existed."

"I release you of that duty. I don't want you to do this out of duty."

"It's too late for that. It wasn't duty that drove me to you last night." Thomas drops his voice to a whisper. "Didn't you hear me? I always thought of you. I still, only ever think of you."

He crawls closer to Francis and pats the side of his thigh, not lewdly or improperly, but with the same affection and regard he's always had for him. Francis takes in a sharp breath. It feels like he's being wooed, but he's only ever done the wooing before, to women, and never too successfully. And yet here is Thomas, on his knees before him, looking up at him with such a hopeful expression in his green eyes. 

"But _ why _?" Francis asks, also in a whisper. He doesn't understand what he's done to deserve this.

"You were a dashing captain when I first met you aboard the Terror, ten years ago. Handsome, just, wise, admired by many. You can't fault a young lad for being a bit dazzled by that."

"Little remains of that captain you met back then. Surely you know that. You've now seen me at my utter worst, shamefully ill because of my own weakness."

"I've also seen you at your best, making decisions no one was willing to make, comforting men when little hope remained, leading them bravely no matter how desperate the road. My regard for you has only grown in this past year."

Francis wills himself to stay strong, to scold him, to refuse him, maybe even to drive him away, but he finds that he has little strength or wish to. They're alone in the middle of nowhere, and here's someone devoted to him, who looks after him, who's known him for years, who nearly died because of him. He doesn't want to resist, selfishly perhaps. He touches Thomas's cheek, cupping his face, and this isn't enough. He pulls him against him then, into his arms, holding him tight against his chest. 

"Please call me Francis," he says, and pulls him even closer.

"Francis," Thomas repeats, and he presses a single, soft kiss against the curve of his neck that makes him shiver as if he were standing outside in the cold, but it kindles a warmth in him instead, spreading from the place of the kiss to the rest of his body. "What happens now, Francis?" 

"I don't know," he answers, unwilling to pretend any longer that he has all the answers, because he has none to give. "I'm afraid these are uncharted waters for me."

"I can't think of a man more suited to sail uncharted waters," Thomas says, pulling back to look at him with a true smile at last. "We'll sail them together. Hm?" He takes Francis's hand and brings it to his lips to kiss it. "I think you'll find that they aren't so foreign after all."

He nods, a little dizzy, and with the rather bemusing impression that Thomas could ask for the moon just now and Francis would give it to him. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split chapter 3 in two parts because it grew rather long after editing it (about 6k), so the fic is now 4 chapters long instead of the initial 3. I think it gives them a bit more room to breathe, in any case. I hope it works for you all and thanks again for reading!

* * *

This dalliance has made winter very interesting indeed. Francis almost regrets the coming of spring. He mourned their igloo when it was time to leave it behind: the place where they'd been so happy for so many weeks.

Back on land, it was commonly acknowledged that the first weeks of a liaison, be it marriage or a more libertine association, were the sweetest - capable of lifting the mood of the most melancholic or choleric man on Earth. Some of his acquaintances outright declared that Francis was in dire need of a good bedding, though they never said it to his face. They were right, all of them. He expected it would feel strange to become attached to a man, but it doesn't all that much - not when it's Thomas, who has been at his side for so long. He has a knack for keeping his legs closed tight enough to drive Francis crazy as he thrusts between his thighs, aided by the grease from the lamp. It reminds him how it felt being giddy from the drink, in ways he hasn't felt since he first started slipping into its dark thrall. And his kisses... the way he laughs against his ear... it could have made Francis very happy, for a very long time.

But with spring came another grief, one he did not expect. One morning, they awoke to find Silna gone from the camp. No one would tell Francis where she'd gone, or how she was expected to survive on her own. Stern but gentle, the chief reminded him of his place in the tribe. It left him angry, helpless, and Thomas had to lead him away for the rest of that day - his discreet silence a welcome comfort while he struggled to accept this unfair loss.

She is (was?) the only one, along with Jopson, who can give faith of what happened. The only one, in fact, who can corroborate that the monster was real, that Francis fought it, that Francis killed it. Not that he lost his hand to his mutineer men, who ate it in their madness, as he sometimes dreads in his nightmares. Sometimes he fears he went mad too, and imagined all of it.

"You did not imagine it," Thomas tells him, shaking his head. He is sitting outside their tent, cooking something by the fire aided by a little Netsilik girl. "I was there. I saw it numerous times. Tuunbaq was real. The Netsilik believe it real. Why must you torture yourself doubting what you saw?"

"Sometimes I think we all lost our minds," Francis admits. "And Tuunbaq was the only thing keeping us sane, uniting us, giving us a purpose."

"Maybe so. Sounds like something a god would do."

"What if there was no god? What if it was all in our heads?"

"In our heads, and the Netsilik's? No, Francis. It was real. It was real, and you killed it. We're alive today because of it. Silna survived on her own in the dead of winter before. I daresay she'll be fine. Something tells me we've not seen the last of her."

Francis wishes he had Thomas's blind faith that things will be well. Particularly now that the spear lessons have begun anew. This time around, the chief has made him hit a moving target: a ball of fur that he kicks around and that Francis must chase because, he says, the seals will not passively wait for him to strike. He misses the target so often he almost gives up, but the chief never lets him. At least his right arm no longer hurts after practice.

"I'll be joining the next hunt," Francis says. The chief told him earlier in the day. There have been two hunts since the longer days began, but he was not taken to those. He expected to feel proud, or relieved, but now that it's happened at last he worries he isn't ready after all.

Thomas smiles at him. "Oh hoh," he says. "I'd better get everything ready for you."

"You don't have to," Francis says. "I don't think I need much."

Thomas makes a 'tsk tsk' sound but doesn't argue, too concentrated on whatever it is that he's cooking. Next to him, the little girl grins up at him and he returns her smile, momentarily not minding Francis. It's a feeling he isn't used to. He isn't sure he likes it, childish as it may be.

"What are you making?" he asks, peeking over to see the pot. It looks very greasy.

"You'll see soon enough," Thomas says, giving him his full attention back. "But forgive me, this will take a while. Go to bed if you are tired. I will join you soon."

Francis does feel rather tired this evening, and he'll need all of his strength for the long walk. He goes inside their tent and slips into bed with every intention of waiting for Thomas, but he falls asleep the moment he lies down. He dreams of Tuunbaq, again, but instead of roaring at him or trying to attack him, the beast stares at him in silence, an enormous, demon-like bear judging him without words.

He awakes with a start. It's morning already.

Thomas is sitting by the basin they use for cleaning themselves, his face covered in what appears to be soap, and is looking at himself in a dirtied tin that passes as a mirror as he shaves with a cooking knife.

"Where did you find soap?" Francis asks, wondering if he's still asleep.

"I made it," Thomas says, without looking at him. "It doesn't smell great, but it's fine for shaving. I thought I'd try it on myself first."

"You _ made _ it?"

"Yes! My mother used to make soap when we couldn't buy any. But there's nothing here to make it scented."

He wipes his face clean and turns to look at him. His eyes seem larger when he's shaven, more expressive. Francis's heart gives a pang. There he is! His Jopson. He did not realise how much he missed him looking like this. 

"Lovely," he mutters, a little embarrassed, and Thomas grins at him.

"Thank you," he says. "Would you like me to shave you? I made enough soap to last us a while."

Francis strokes his beard thoughtfully. "I don't know," he says. "I've grown fond of it."

"So have I, indeed. How about just a trim?"

"Do not pretend I have any say in this, Thomas. You'll do exactly as you please with me, as you always have."

"Not always," Thomas says, and winks at him. 

His Jopson would have never looked at him like this, effortlessly playful and seductive. Francis feels his face growing warm at the thought that he could have, and he might have never noticed. Thomas crawls on all fours until he's by the edge of the makeshift bed, kneeling between his legs and ignoring his vague blush. His hands are gentle as they rub the foam from the soap on Francis's neck. He's right: it doesn't smell like anything. Maybe of the sea. He thinks of the soap they had aboard: the smell of it was unremarkable, but it did give a satisfying sense of cleanliness. He never thought he'd miss it. The knife is cold when it presses against his skin, but it helps him follow what is happening: Thomas scraps off the hairs growing on his neck, keeping a neat line with the curve of his jaw. It was getting itchy there.

Francis draws in a soft breath, not wanting to disturb the process. He always did look forward to this, when they were on the ship. He never questioned why he enjoyed it so much back then, though if he had, he'd have probably said he liked Jopson's careful touch as he held his face, or having someone looking after him so attentively. But there's another edge to it, one he never noticed before - having him so close to him, his gaze flickering up to meet his, his warm breath against his face, the way he leans so close to him, close enough to kiss. How many years could have gone on, and he'd have never noticed?

"Has it always been like this?" Francis asks, his voice raspy. 

"Yes?" Thomas says, sounding confused. "I am not doing anything differently."

"I never knew," he says, and leans to press their lips together.

"I don't know what this is about," Thomas protests, though he does kiss him back. "But I haven't finished." Francis grabs the hand that isn't holding the knife and presses it to his crotch so that he sees how hard he's growing. Thomas cups him over his drawers, but he shakes his head. "Let me finish."

Francis sighs, knowing he's up against the rising tide, making resistance futile. He bends his head to let him finish the neck - the wait sweeter but painful. The cold knife against his skin that might otherwise feel unpleasant is a welcome distraction - and if he admits to himself, far more pleasurable than decency allows. When it's over, Thomas puts the knife away and holds his face between his hands, inspecting his cheeks and wiping him off with a cloth.

"I think it looks fine now," he declares, and no sooner has he spoken that Francis slides his hand behind his head and tries pulling him down. Thomas grins at him as he slips a hand inside his drawers. "This? Is this what you want?" he teases, and Francis hisses in acquiescence.

He bends down to close his lips around his length. He is maddeningly good at this; not just with his mouth, but the way he wraps his hand around Francis's cock at the same time, coating all of it with the slickness of his saliva and keeping it in a tight snug as he bobs his head up and down. Panting, Francis slides his fingers into Thomas's hair and gives him a gentle tug, enough for him to open his eyes and look up at him, dick still in his mouth.

"Don't stop," Francis says, breathless.

But he does stop, he pulls back and gives him a few sloppy jerks, still gazing up at at him but with a devilish grin.

"I've got somewhere else you can put it," he suggests, an eyebrow raised.

He's been angling for this for a while now, but Francis always refuses, this particular Rubicon still uncrossable.

"No," he says, and pushes Thomas's head towards his cock.

"As you command, sir," he barely has time to say before he takes him in his mouth again. 

Ten years of habit are hard to break: the odd 'sir' still slips here and there, but Francis is quite sure that sometimes, like now, Thomas does it deliberately. He stands, then, and grabs him, one hand to the side of his face and his stump behind the back of his neck to keep him in place. He starts thrusting into his mouth, sparing him no respite. Francis knows by now that he can take it. He feels Thomas tensing at first, but then his jaw goes slack to let him do as he pleases, and his tongue runs most deliciously against the underside of his cock every time he slides between his lips. Francis can't last very long with this pace: he spills inside Thomas's mouth with a groan, his thrusts brusque enough that he hears him choking a little, and some seed dribbles down to his chin. When he lets go of him, almost pushing him away, Thomas sits on the floor and wipes his mouth with his hand without breaking eye contact. 

Francis lies down on the bed, trying to recover, but Thomas is already standing up, handling himself lazily as he joins him on the bed. Francis lets him push him down against the furs, loving the way Thomas pins him down with his full weight on him, and the way his hardened cock rubs against his bare stomach. His long illness has left deep scars on his arms and legs, but it's given a more sober beauty to his formerly boyish face: Thomas looks like a soldier hardened on unspeakable battles, even with his hair long enough to fall across his eyes.

Today, however, he says, "If you won't do it, will you let _ me _ try?"

Francis sighs. "Why does this matter so much?"

"It's so good, Francis," he says, kissing him on the jaw. "When you finally give in, you'll wonder why you ever refused."

Francis is wondering how he ever refuses him anything, when he looks at him like this.

"I am somewhat reluctant to engage in an activity so prone to... untoward mishaps," he argues for the sake of arguing, and he slides his good hand between them to give him a few jerks.

"Untoward mishaps?" Thomas laughs and bucks into his hand eagerly. "In my case, I daresay I've encountered your 'untoward mishaps' enough to take my chances at it. I've wiped your arse more times than I can count, for God's sake."

Mortified, Francis pushes him off him, or tries to. "Your bedside manners are appalling, do you know that?" he scolds, but Thomas grins at him and fights back with enough force to have them thrashing on the bed a bit.

"I was hoping you'd notice. Let me do it. I'll show you how it's done. When you return from the hunt, you may ride me long and hard, and you'll thank me for being so stubborn about it."

Crippled or not, Francis is still strong enough to flip them over so that he is positioned on top, his bad arm across Thomas's shoulders, just where his chest meets his neck, and he tightens his grip on his dick.

"Oh, I'll ride you long and hard when I return alright," he tells him, dropping his voice to a growl as he jerks him faster. "You needn't demonstrate anything. I will have my way with you, do you hear me?"

"Please," Thomas says, raggedly.

"Do you know they call you my wife?"

"I know!" He somehow manages a choking laugh. "You should deflower me."

"I will." Francis flicks his thumb over the tip of Thomas's cock, rubbing the wetness all over its head. "After the hunt." He presses his arm against his neck a little more, pinning him down. "And I'll make you all mine."

Thomas gasps and stares up at him, wide-eyed, as he spends himself in his hand, shuddering under him. 

"Already am, sir," he whispers, still heaving, his shortened breath warm against Francis's cheek.

So he does it: he bends down to press a kiss to Thomas's lips, a quick, nearly chaste kiss, and he pulls off him before he gets ideas to kiss him more wantonly. He sits up on the bed, away from him. It's in quiet moments like this where he misses the drink the most. He'd love to have a good sip just now, to ease down, to forget, to stop himself from noticing that if he was very fond of Jopson before, he's growing rather violently attached to him now. It's a frightening ordeal, to have a person become the centre of one's world so blindingly - even if Francis is certain that he's the centre of Thomas's as well. It was to be expected, he supposes, in the isolation they find themselves in. He waits until Thomas sounds like he's calmed down behind him before he speaks to him again.

"Help me dress, won't you?" he asks him, and Thomas is on his feet at once.

With the coming of the relatively warmer days, the women began making clothes for their families with the lighter pelts. Thomas sat with them for days, learning to sew in their ways. Francis knew he did all of the tailoring for him aboard, but he hadn't expected him to be so skilled with the needle as to make a full outfit for him. He'd even added his own British flair to the shirt, fashioning the neck not unlike that of the uniform Francis used to wear, while still retaining all of the practicality of the Netsilik garb. It's quite comfortable, in fact. Francis likes it. After Thomas helps him into his clothes, he fixes Francis's hair with the ivory comb, very gently.

"There," he says, patting him on the cheek when he's done. "All ready to go, Master Aglooka. Return to us soon."

"I will," Francis says, a little dryly. "I hope I manage to catch something."

"I'm sure you will. They all say you're growing more skilled with the spear." Thomas hands him a pouch and a flask of fresh water. "I packed you enough meat for a week. The pouch may also unfold into a blanket."

Francis doesn't fail to see some humour that out of the two of them, despite still speaking the language of the land somewhat uncertainly, Thomas is the one who has slipped into the role assigned to him with impressive ease. Most of what he is expected to do for him, like managing the food, cleaning the tent, making sure his clothes are ready, or helping him prepare for the hunt, he already was doing for him in one way or another.

He doesn't want to imagine what it would be like if he didn't have Thomas there with him.

"Thank you," he tells him as he shoulders his provisions. "You're the best companion I could ever hope to have."

Thomas beams at him when he meets his gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the last bit, will probably update in a week!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! The end is incredibly fluffy, but I did warn you in the tags :)

* * *

Francis grunts and throws his spear away in frustration. Yet another failure. He was too slow to hit the small seal as it surfaced, and he struck the water rather than the animal. It's the eight one he's missed - and that's only today.

"Next time," the chief tells him, patting him on the shoulder.

"I'm starting to think it'll never happen."

"You are one-handed for less than a year. Patience. Your seal will come."

Francis huffs and picks up the spear. His outburst went unacknowledged by the rest of the men, which shames him in retrospect. They've hunted a good deal so far: they will soon return to the main camp. Francis glares at the breathing hole: he does not want to go back empty-handed. He sits back down, scolding himself inwardly for acting with less stoicism than his peers - than would be appropriate for the circumstances. The chief sits next to him.

"We must be quiet for seal hunting, but I have a question for you. A question I asked you when you first came to us. Now that spring has come, I ask you again. Aglooka. Where do you want to go?"

Francis doesn't look up. He expected this question, but it doesn't make it any easier to answer. In truth, he hasn't spoken to Thomas about it. They should have talked about this in the winter, instead of cavorting endlessly in bed. He feels reasonably certain that Thomas would follow him anywhere, no matter his decision, but it still feels presumptuous to speak for him. 

"Could we stay?" Francis asks, instead of answering. "With your people."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes. But I do not know if I am permitted. I would not want to cause unnecessary trouble with your gods, or the other tribes."

The chieftain sighs. "Some elders think it would be good if you stayed, should Tuunbaq return in this lifetime."

Francis starts at this. Is this his end of the bargain, then, if they stay: a sword of Damocles constantly hanging above his head? Would they expect him to kill the beast again, to reason with it, to apologise to it perhaps? Or a more sinister tribute, like Silna offering her tongue? He does not think he could refuse anything if he does stay; he must do as the Netsilik bid him, indebted to them as he is. 

"Why?" he asks, his voice a little unsteady.

The chief presses his hand to Francis's chest. "You bear his mark. He has chosen you. You are a good omen."

Francis nearly chuckles in disbelief at the thought of himself being anything remotely close to a good omen, but he holds his tongue, not wanting to be disrespectful. The scars have healed by now, but they will likely never fade. He thinks of Silna again, the pain of losing her still smarting. If Tuunbaq returns, maybe she would too. He does not dare to press on.

"The women have given your wife a name," the chief goes on.

"Have they?" Francis smiles at this. Thomas didn't say.

"If he accepts it, he becomes one of us, as you have. We think him useful. We have watched him. The first hunts, we left some men behind to see how he'd behave around the women. But he never hurt them. He taught the children a game to keep them busy."

What brutes they must seem to them, that the Netsilik still feel the need to watch them in silence to see if they're trustworthy. Francis can't say he blames them. They behaved abominably in these lands, all of them.

"You needn't have worried," he says, still ashamed, and uncertain his judgement of character is worth anything. "Thomas is one of the most honourable men I've ever met."

Not to mention completely disinterested in women. Francis doesn't think he'd fare well if they returned to England - if they were imprisoned, or left destitute after the court martial like he expects. What would become of him? Francis closes his fist at the mere notion of Thomas having to look after another man, as a valet or a butler to some petulant lordling who might mistreat him and be completely unaware of his incalculable worth. No, Francis will never allow that to happen. He might beg the Netsilik to shelter them, if it comes to it - Tuunbaq or not.

"How long will you stay?" the chieftain asks, after a long pause. "Until you tire of us, or the men of your lands come for you?"

"They won't come. And even if they did, I have no home to return to. This is my home now, if you permit us to stay."

"We do. You may stay," the chief says, and smiles. "Now be silent, and watch the water."

After he's gone, Francis's thoughts turn to Thomas again. They call him his wife, but he remains a man. At times, this is as disorienting as the crazed turns of a compass in these latitudes. At sea, when making merry, men would at times wear women's clothing, like in Fitzjames's unfortunate party - a grotesque spectacle to see bearded men dressed like ladies, but it was all in good fun. Francis himself allowed himself a dance or two in such circumstances. Among the Netsilik, men and women dress very much the same, and it means nothing at all. Their roles are separate, clearly defined, and yet Thomas has no qualms performing the tasks assigned to women. They seem to accept him among them and teach him their arts willingly. Even children get on well with him, after seeing him around their mothers, with a naturality that baffles Francis: some children still cower from him, while Thomas has won them over with his knucklebones passion. 

About two hours pass until the next seal surfaces, but this time Francis is ready for it. He sinks his spear and for once his aim is true: the water turns red and the seal trashes around, caught. Francis fishes out the animal with a shout. There's something primal, visceral as he wrestles it onto the ice, one-handed. He did not have the luxury of feeling victorious in his last fight to the death. This time he allows himself to scream with relief, the sorrows of the past year not quite erased but at last lessened. The other men surround him to congratulate him. The seal is rather small, but Francis doesn't care: he laughs, mixing English and the Netsilik tongue as he thanks the others for their support.

"Today you're truly one of us," Samik tells him, and Francis hadn't realised how much he needed this until he feels some tears stinging in his eyes.

* * *

The pace on the way back seems to pick up as they near the camp: to prevent the fresh food from spoiling, but mostly because the men are eager to return to their families. There is no true sense of owning any particular catch, as all will be shared within the community, but since it was his first kill, Francis is allowed to carry his seal himself as they near the tents. He's met with genuine cheer: at the edge of the camp, Thomas grins at him as he claps with the others. He joins him as soon as Francis deposits the seal with the rest of the catches and pulls him into his arms.

"Hip, hip," he tells him, laughing a little. "Congratulations, Aglooka!"

"Don't tease."

"I'm not, honest! I'm happy for you. I know how much it meant to you."

Francis pulls back enough to look at him, and grabs a handful of his hair. He meant to stroke it, but instead he only stares at him, wanting to kiss him rather much. But such a display like he's longing to do would not be considered polite in front of everyone assembled, he knows, so he lets go reluctantly and only presses the sides of their noses together like he's seen the other families do, breathing in his scent. Thomas smiles at him, accepting the caress for what it is.

"They told me you have a name now?"

"I do, yes." The cold wind has always given Thomas's cheeks a healthy flush, but he's blushing now, and he averts his gaze.

"Well, what is it?"

"Qoonaq, apparently."

Francis tries to make sense of the meaning - something to do with smiling, or smiles. Thomas does smile very often. Not as much as before his illness, but no less endearing. Aglooka and Qoonaq. The names go rather well together.

"It suits you," he tells him warmly.

He slides his bad arm under the crook of Thomas's elbow while they dine with the others, staying linked like this as they sit together. It's completely unnecessary, but Thomas feeds him himself, saving the best parts for him. There's much excited chatted around them, the hunters recounting their adventure, and the good news of the melting ice westwards. Come summer, they say, they will move the camp there to start fishing. The women and those who stayed behind also speak of what they did in the hunters' absence, and Francis only listens distractedly until he hears Thomas's Netsilik name being repeated with marked excitement.

"What's this?" he asks, a little alarmed to find Thomas blushing again. "What did you do?"

"Ah, there was a bird close to the camp one morning. Quite large. Don't know what kind, a gull, most likely. I shot it down with a stone. They were rather impressed."

"_I'm _ rather impressed. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to overshadow your big kill." Thomas leans closer. "If you must know, I saved you a thigh. We'll roast it tomorrow, if you like. It tastes better than chicken. I regretted killing it after, do you know? Maybe we could have kept it with us, like a hen. Eat its eggs for breakfast."

"Thomas, you can't domesticate a gull!" Francis says, laughing out loud.

"Why not? Eggs fried in the grease from the seals, mmm. My mouth waters at the thought."

Francis looks at him, realising he isn't joking. "Do you miss it, then? Eggs, tea? Proper soap?"

Thomas meets his gaze. "I'm offended you think my soap isn't proper, but yes, I do miss it at times. Why do you ask?"

"The chief will allow us to stay here with them, for as long as we wish. I was considering staying forever. But you may go if you want. I would understand if you did."

"Without you?" Thomas sounds baffled. "Never. Where you go, I'll go. If you stay, then so shall I."

"So you'll stay with me?" Francis asks, dropping his voice. He can't seem to tear his gaze from Thomas's lips.

"Yes, I'll stay with you."

Francis takes a deep breath. "So long as we both shall live?"

He meant to sound a little teasing, but it came out more heartfelt than he intended. Thomas stares at him, his lips twitching into a playful smile.

"Is this to be our wedding night, then, Mister Crozier?"

Francis places his good hand on Thomas's thigh and strokes it over the trousers. "I think it might be."

He glances around to ascertain their absence would not be considered too hasty, but part of the group has already started breaking away from the feast. So he nods at Thomas, and they make their way to the tent. It's always surprising how much warmer it feels inside, despite the pelts appearing so light. Everything stands just as when Francis left (in order, clean, and cozy), but for two little sewn bags on their bed.

"Pillows?" Francis remarks, as Thomas begins undressing him. 

"Yes! With the bird's feathers. I thought we deserved a little extravagance in our lives."

"This is an extravagance I can live with," he agrees with a chuckle.

"Fitting for a wedding night, wouldn't you say?" Thomas says, insidiously, as he tugs at the waist of Francis's trousers to pull him closer against him.

"Careful with that," he scolds. "I don't think you want to tear it."

"I sewed it myself, Francis. I think it can stand a pull or two from me." Nevertheless, he undoes the leather laces, without looking down once at what he's doing - the tease in his gaze making it almost unbearable to hold. "Won't you please sit?" 

Francis sits on the bed, a little breathless, and watches Thomas remove his boots. A part of him considers asking him to stop waiting on him like this, to be a little less subservient, but he must admit that a large part of his arousal is building up fast from these simple actions that Thomas has done thousands of times before, just as gently, as if Francis were one of his most precious possessions. When the boots come off, he starts pulling the trousers down along with the drawers, and Francis lifts his hips to let him. Thomas raises an eyebrow when he finds him half hard already, but doesn't reach to touch him yet.

"I think you may be a little overdressed," Francis complains.

Thomas only smirks at him as he reaches for a clean cloth, the soap and the basin. The water is a little cold: Francis would hiss in displeasure, but after nearly a fortnight hunting a clean up feels marvelous, and more so with the hands sponging him off so deftly. Thomas frowns in concentration, so focused on his task that he appears to be somewhere else. He even cleans Francis's dick as if it were any other part of his body - though not quite, because he gives it a few jerks with the cloth, and Francis gasps at the contrast between the cool sensation and the rush of blood engorging him further.

"Undress now," he says, but Thomas ignores him as he moves the cloth down to clean his thighs, and his calves, and his feet. Francis draws in a sharp breath, so hard it's becoming painful. "Jopson, undress right now or I'll do it myself, so help me God!" he commands.

Thomas cocks his head and smiles at him. "Yes, sir," he says, and finally, finally starts undoing his own clothes.

Francis reaches for him the moment he's naked, pulling him onto the bed. He was quite intent on touching him and on teasing him back, but once he has him near all he manages to do is to draw him into his arms, holding him tight against him and cradling his head with his good hand. It isn't a platonic embrace by any means, both their cocks hard enough to make their pressing together a jolt of pleasure, but Francis relishes the closeness of skin against skin - of knowing he's here, of knowing he'll stay.

"Francis?" Thomas asks, sounding a little puzzled. 

He tries to move - his hesitant bucking against him taking on an urgent edge. His cock is already leaking from arousal all over their stomachs. Francis lets go of him to look at him, a hand still tangled in his hair. He likes him like this, clean-shaven, and naked, and his. He leans forward to kiss him on the mouth, and Thomas is quick to respond to it, sliding his tongue between Francis's lips - and a hand down to handle both their dicks with impatient jerks, so firmly Francis has to pull back from the kiss before long.

"Stop it," he warns him, his breath hitched. "Or there won't be much of a wedding night to speak of."

Thomas grins at him and lets go. He rolls away from him to reach from the grease they keep for the lamp and for situations like this. He takes a slick handful of it and rubs it all over Francis's cock with unnecessary zeal, leaving him to clench his jaw not to spill. For one who used to be so obedient, Thomas certainly has become a little defiant of late. He rather likes it.

"Shall I sit on you, then?" Thomas asks, stroking Francis's beard with his clean hand. "What would you prefer?"

Francis hasn't done this with men to have a preference so to speak, but he has enough imagination to understand the mechanics of it. He pushes Thomas away from him to have him lie flat on his back, and he slides atop him.

"I said I would ride you," he tells him, raising an eyebrow, and Thomas pants in anticipation. "So I shall. I want to see your face when I do it."

It's easy to position himself between his raised legs, less so to enter him: it's tighter than Francis expected. But the grease helps him ease in somewhat, and each of his experimental pushes, slow and steady for lack of a clearer stratagem, draws a gasp out of Thomas. He feels him bearing down against him, the pressure exquisite and maddening as he slides in inch by inch, and Francis has to groan when he finally finds himself inside fully.

"Easy now, Captain," Thomas warns him, placing a burning hand on his hip to force him to pause.

"Does it hurt?" Francis asks, perhaps too flippantly - the name he's called him invigorating enough for him to be more callous than usual.

"Yes. But I like it."

"What else do you like?"

"You," he says, patting his hip to encourage him to get going. "You, looking at me like you are now, with your face all flustered and - ah!"

Francis agrees: he too likes seeing Thomas so flustered, his cheeks flushed red and his eyes wide every time he thrusts into him, trying to stay somewhat quiet but utterly failing to do so. He did warn him it felt good, too good. He understands now. If they'd done this before, if Francis had a taste of this forbidden bliss earlier in his life, he doesn't think there would have been a way back from this path. He would have wanted Jopson aboard, all the time, every day, with the same desperation he had for the drink, or perhaps even more keenly - on all fours on the narrow berth that was his bed, or bent over the dining table. The mere thought of it nearly tips him over the edge, and more so when Thomas throws his head back and arches up against him, his seed warm and slick as it spills between them. Francis kisses him deeply to stop himself from crying out as he too takes his pleasure, suffocating and intense.

He stays close against him after he pulls out, listening to his ragged breathing as it falls into step with his. For all his worries of accidents, this was a rather smooth affair. Thomas stretches to reach for the cloth he was using earlier and wipes the messes they've made on him, both of them. He then pulls the fur blanket over them, and Francis rests his head against his shoulder.

"I told you you'd like it," Thomas says, sounding a bit too smug.

"So you did. Don't get cocky now."

"Or what?"

"I suppose 'or I'll make you regret it' isn't much of a threat in our current circumstances, is it?"

"I'm willing to take my chances," he says, and laughs so endearingly Francis cannot resist placing a kiss on the soft skin behind his ear.

"I do love you, Thomas," he says, stroking some hair out of his face.

"I've always loved you. But you knew that already."

Aye, he did. It doesn't make it any less sweet to hear it.

"So what happens now?" Francis asks, repeating the same question Thomas has asked several times before. 

"Hmm. I think we have a fair chance at being reasonably happy, wouldn't you say?"

Happy. A word rarely used in his vocabulary, and yet he needn't ponder the notion for long at all, not with Thomas by his side. Francis would laugh at himself, if he weren't so sure about his answer.

"Yes!" he says. "I think we shall be."

* * *


End file.
